


The Dog Days will never be over (so suck it up and deal)

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Adult Language, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Kink Meme, M/M, Sexual Content, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Vladimir is a dick, blood/gore/injury/injury recovery, but he is MATT'S dick, mildly dub-con due to trope but not really, sexual/emotional pull, so it all works out somehow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are stupid, stupid man," Vladimir hissed, gargling blood like salt water as they stood together in the middle of a staggered swirl of bodies. His fists were bloody and he was unsteady on his feet, but he still had it in him to keep them upright. Taking the bulk of the Russian's weight as the man's heartbeat fluttered – an alarming hush-hush-hush in place of the usual bold throb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to Marvel's "Daredevil", wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: Inspired by both a prompt on the Daredevil kink meme which asked for: "Vladimir/Matt: soulmate au" and a post by this-is-not-how-I-die on tumblr who wrote a vague outline for a similar prompt and freed it for the world to use, which included the song that Vladimir sang at the end of episode six. – In this version of the prompt, I am changing things around a bit. Not everyone has a soul mate, it is actually considered quite rare, but those that do have the most important words their soulmate will ever say to them etched on their skin. Meaning, you can be lovers, friends or passing strangers on the street with your soulmate and never know it until they utter that one phrase.
> 
> Warnings: Soulmate/soulbond trope, sexual/emotional pull (mild dub-con due to that trope), adult language, sexual content, violence, blood, guts, gore, injury, angst, drama.

"You are stupid,  _stupid_  man," Vladimir hissed, gargling blood like salt water as they stood together in the middle of a staggered swirl of bodies. His fists were bloody and he was unsteady on his feet, but he still had it in him to keep them upright. Taking the bulk of the Russian's weight as the man's heartbeat fluttered – an alarming  _hush-hush-hush_ in place of the usual bold throb.

"I knew you'd come back," the man murmured, spitting up a viscous mouthful of blood and phlegm as he faded into his hold. Barely conscious, but still just as stubborn. Apparently determined to get the last word as the gun slipped between his fingers. Clattering through the access tunnels as the echoes spread like plague.

He winced in growing sympathy as the man's head drooped, brushing across the span of his shoulder once, twice, then again before the Russian forced it up with a moan. The antithesis of going quietly as his fingers counted at least one new bullet hole.  _Damnit._ He let his hand fall across the man curve of the man's cheek, dipping down to flirt with his pulse as his senses painted the picture for him.

Vladimir was a mess. Like a horror-story reject or a forgotten solider from an equally forgotten war. He been caught in an explosion, beat to hell, shot, fallen through two floors, then been shot again. He'd died twice and was still walking the line between the two like the world's thinnest tightrope. The Russian probably wouldn't last the night if he didn't get him somewhere safe and convince Claire to parlay with her own version of Judge, Jury, and Executioner. He didn't know how he was going to ask her. How he _could_  ask her. Not after everything she'd been through – everything Vladimir and his people had put her through.

And yet-

His fingers traced across the man's face, ignoring the Russian's vague protestations and the weak hand that tried to slap him away. Grumbling without any real heat as he took stock. The scar he'd felt earlier was even more interesting gliding under his tips than it was smashed up against his fist. It spanned almost the entire side of the Russian's face, barely missing his eye. It had never been stitched, instead it had been left to heal on its own. Going puckered, pitted and smooth where the skin hadn't been able to knit naturally. The rest of him was a mess of conflictingly bold features. A prominent forehead. Stubble-strewn cheeks. A nose that had been broken more than once. A jutting chin and lips that-that spoke of  _oh Christ_ \- bloodlust, full and warm against his skin.

All in all, from what he could tell Vladimir was a slick, attractive, crusted  _mess_ of blood and bruises, swaying in place. Looking around them, blinking as the thready scent of weakness started rolling off the Russian in waves. Causing the broad swell of his back to settle against his chest like a key fitting into a lock.

_His heart's mate._

_His one._

_His soul-bonded._

_No!_

The realization was like trying to trap air. Threatening to punch the breath clear out of him as he scrambled for something to say. Something smart. Something disarming. Something that could fill the sudden, gaping hole that yawned in front of him like judgement – divine or otherwise.

He made the mistake of breathing hard and inhaled the bitter tang of blood and sweat.  _Vladimir._  Under that, as if to stay true to character, the man was a riot of scent and memory. Pores thick with the slow poison of stale nicotine and expensive Vodka. But that wasn't all. There was more.  _Deeper_. Black pepper and worn leather – butter-soft and fading. Burnt sage. Honey. Crushed dogwood and the ghostly markers of his brother's fading cologne. That was all there was. They were surrounded by half a dozen dead men and all he could smell was him.

_It couldn't be._

But it was.

_This had to be some sort of mistake._

But it wasn't.

_This wasn't what he'd thought._

What exactly were you expecting, Matty?

The man said it himself in the tunnels.

The moment you put on that mask, you got into the same cage.

And what, you really thought you wouldn't get bit?

_This wasn't how he'd thought it would happen._

But it did and there's nothing you can do about it.

_It wasn't right. Fair. It wasn't-_

Vladimir gurgled out a laugh, catching him off guard when the man's hand shot up and caught him by the chin. He jerked back, on edge, only to get a cuff on the ear for it before Vladimir got him where he wanted. Saying nothing, hell- hardly daring to  _breathe_  as the Russian's thumb passed back and forth in an off-centre caress. Grip surprisingly strong for a man who was about a minute away from passing out completely.

"True then," the Russian mused, tightening his grip as the man's bloody fingers slicked across his skin. Bringing them almost cheek to cheek, smearing red through his stubble as every muscle in the man's body went lax in his hold. "You must be mine, hmm? …Ach! Chto ya ne zasluzhil etogo?"

For one terrible, desperate second he thought the man was going to kiss him.

Instead, Vladimir chose that exact moment to pass out completely. Hand falling limp at his side, caught in the cradle between his right thigh and the mobster's stomach. Leaving him in the middle the tunnel, surrounded by bodies with a half dead Russian wilted in his arms and the realization that out of all the unfair things in his life, this was probably the worst.

* * *

" _..On the battlefield the tanks were rumbling. While the soldiers went to the last battle."_

_"...And we carried a young captain. With a hole in his head…"_

He was halfway down the tunnel when he heard it. The beginning strains of a scratchy unsteady song. For a long, breathless beat his feet kept going, body on autopilot. Then he was running back as fast as his aching limbs could carry him. Lips moving soundlessly in time with the verses he knew by heart as the first peals of gunfire echoed down the tunnel like the tolling of a bell – final and tepid in the murky city air.

* * *

Stick taught him a lot about himself, about the world. How to fight. How to focus his gifts. How to win when he was outnumbered. How to survive in a world meant for those who could see. Hell, he'd even taught him the taste of disappointment and betrayal when it had curled across his tongue the day the man left.

_He never had learned the blade._

_Never tried to now that he thought about it._

But one thing Stick taught him by accident was that there was so much more to it than just the marks. The marks were just the part you could see. Having a bonded, a soulmate was something that made a mark  _under_  your skin just as much as it did over it.

The world Stick taught him how to access was vast and barely tangible. Where the first rule of thumb was that he knew shit and always would. And as long as he remembered that he wouldn't live in disappointment. Stick had hated that. Hated his mark. He'd never asked about it. Just drilled the mantra of weakness and emotional decay into him again and again. Telling him he was better off if his one never found him. That he might as well sign his soulmate's death warrant right here and now if he thought he could exist in both worlds. His Father's and Stick's.

He'd set his chin in defiance at that. Blurting out that his soulmate would fight  _with_  him. That they could work together. They were meant to be together, weren't they? So they would understand, they had to!? They would be strong. Just like him. But Stick had just laughed and slapped him across the chest with his cane so hard his chest ached for weeks. Reminding him, every time he breathed of his mentor's derision. And the sneering lilt that entered his voice anytime the man caught him tracing the words on his arm he could no longer see.

His father had taken him to a man once, before the accident. A man with a big beard, kind eyes and a rolling bear-like laugh that frightened him the first time he heard it. But like all things that seem to be the opposite than they appear, he'd pulled his father into a burly hug and leaned down to greet him. Massive paw ruffling through his hair as he led him into the kitchen for his wife – a lovely woman who plied him with a towering bowl of Pelmeni – to dote on. Soaking up her lilting songs as she hummed happily, apron flapping around her like the leading swirl of an expensive dress as the man and his father clinked beer bottles and talked excitedly about an upcoming match.

But the big man had sobered almost instantly when he'd seen it. Eyes misting – watery around the edges like he noticed his Dad's did sometimes when he was stitching him up after a fight. He rolled up the rest of his sleeve, nodding as he silently read each line. It wasn't until he'd written out the translation on a piece of paper that he spoke it aloud. First in Russian. Then in English. But it was the Russian words that made him shiver, like he was suddenly too small for his own skin as each syllable met open air. Electric with the knowledge that someday his one would sing the same lines. And that somehow, they would be the most important words they'd ever say to him.

It was only after a long silence that the man told him what it meant. Told him about the song his father used to sing many years ago. About a tank crew, still loyal to their fallen Captain as they carried his body home through the vast winter wastes. None of them with hair enough on their chins to be called men, but men forged through deed and valor nonetheless.

He left more confused then he'd been when they'd arrived. He thought that once he found out what his mark said, everything would make sense. Instead, he had more questions than answers. He knew his dad was frustrated too, judging by how much scotch was left in the bottle in the morning. They didn't talk much about it after that. There wasn't any point. The cards had already been played. It was up to fate to decide how they fell.

Then the accident happened.

And the sight of that stark, clumsy script was lost to him forever.

* * *

He was out of options and running on empty when he made the decision to drag the Russian back to his apartment. It was a bad idea with even worse connotations behind it, but he did it anyway. He lied to get Claire to come and showed her his arm to get her to stay. Hearing the angry betrayal in her voice simmer down to brimming resentment when he explained. When he told her what had happened in the tunnels. Knowing how it sounded. How it must have looked as his sightless eyes blinked away an unexpected sheen. Realizing that regardless of what Vladimir had done, regardless of who he was – he'd almost lost him.

_His soulmate._

It was a very strange feeling. Caring for someone who was literally a _blight_  on the city he risked his life to protect. Connecting with someone who had – apparently – known what they were to each other and chose to walk headfirst into a firefight he knew he couldn't win just to give him time to escape. He tried not to think about it. But repression only got you so far when said asshole was a slumped dead weight on his couch and whose scent had already started to smell like home.

Vladimir slept for almost a week straight, pissing into a bedpan and attached to what felt like – when he had a moment to untangle the drips – at least three different IVs. IVs that Claire replaced every day before and after her shift. Making angry noises whenever she checked the unconscious man's dressings or forced him to blink himself awake long enough to jam some food down his throat and check his vitals. Serenely ignoring the odd string of belligerent Russian that made its way through the haze of drugs and exhaustion as she poked and prodded him around. Muttering about stubborn assholes and people that didn't know how to quit before they were dead – but eventually sounding less scathing about it by the day

A week ago that probably would have worried him. Nowadays he had no idea what he was feeling.  _What he should be feeling._  All he knew was that sometimes Vladimir would blink himself awake and just stare at him. Crooked fingers fanning out into open air until he gave in and held them in his own. Soothed soul deep by the light slur of Russian that would inevitably leave the man's lips. Gripping him fiercely, like by sheer will alone the man could make him stay. Demanding his attention with childish juts of his chin until the siren call of sleep called him back, and he was lolling on the lumpy pillows. A small, uncertain smile tugging at the corner of his lips every time he got up the courage to trace it with his fingers.

Some people would say that was reason enough to accept the status quo.

But then again, most people's soulmates weren't  _Vladimir_   _Ranskahov_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:  
> • “Chto ya ne zasluzhil etogo?” – “What have I done to deserve this?”  
> • English translation of a Russian song from World War 2, which was what Vladimir was singing when he started down the tunnel towards Fisk’s men as Matt escaped before the gunfire started.  
> • Pelmeni is a mainly Russian dish usually made with minced meat filling, wrapped in thin dough (made out of flour and eggs, sometimes with milk or water added). For filling, pork, lamb, beef, or any other kind of meat can be used; mixing several kinds is popular. Traditionally, various spices, such as pepper, onions, and garlic, are mixed into the filling.


	2. Chapter 2

There was more to the world around them than they could pick apart. Even Stick admitted as much. Talking for hours about things that seemed to have no more substance than mist in the morning, otherworldly and without shape. The soulbond being one of them. And even then it was only to tell him how he should forget about his. How they would hold him back. Make him weak, vulnerable. But still, he knew  _some_  things. He'd been born with his mark. With the scratchy cursive script taking up nearly the entire span of his inner arm from the joint of his shoulder to the vein that signaled the taper of his wrist. Meaning that either they'd taken their first breath together, or his bonded was older than him.

He'd always imagined older. He'd never exactly been able to explain why. Just like could he couldn't figure out why, whenever he could afford it, he favored Russian vodka over anything else. Why sometimes, in the dead of winter, he'd smile when the bitter chill hit his skin. Why he sometimes ordered his coffee black and strong when he preferred it laced with cream and sugar.

Or why one day, he woke up in the middle of their dorm room screaming and clutching at his face. Feeling the hot burn of phantom steel slicing through his skin. Slicking his face with blood that he could actually  _feel_  rolling down the imaginary bruises. The blade – because he knew it was a blade - barely missing his left eye as Foggy fell out of his bed on the other side of the room with a resounding thud. Grabbing him by the shoulders and murmuring about nightmares as his best friend held him through the aftershocks. Hiccuping long into the night as a pain that was not his own throbbed hot and infected across his skin.

And for the first time in a long time, he wondered.

* * *

 It was Saturday morning when Vladimir dragged himself back into the waking world by his finger nails. He sensed the change in the air as he rolled out of bed and slipped on a t-shirt. Head cocked as he listened to the subtle grunts and hisses of sucked in air as the Russian seemed to take stock of himself. Filling the quiet with the tart of sweat and escaping crimson as several of the man's stitches pulled tight in warning.

It was stupid, but he found himself almost smiling. Buoyed by a strange sort of excitement as he let his senses drink it in. The man was stubborn. Already pushing himself harder than he should be. He was hungry and in desperate need of a shower. Tinting the air with what he figured was a usual dose of aggression, as far as Vladimir was concerned, as the springs on his third-hand couch pinged sharply.

He gave him a handful of moments before he slipped on his mask and exited the room. Deciding to play it safe and hold off the inevitable for as long as he could. Thinking that a dose of the familiar was probably in order, at the very least.

_Or not._

Vladimir ended up pulling three stitches and gave him a bloody nose – apparently for no reason at all - before he sagged back into the couch. Cussing out a blue streak in Russian as he clutched his side and looked about the room wildly. Panting like a wounded animal as the tang of adrenaline and fear coated over the room like an unwelcome balm.

He just sighed and got out the suture kit.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

 "What was it?" he asked, tone quiet, almost restful if he hadn't been repairing the stitching on Vladimir's side with careful delicacy. Feeling his way through every pinch, tug and pull as Vladimir remained still and strangely silent above him. Bare feet curling into the shitty wood floor every time the needle  _snick-snicked_  through the tight skin just below the man's ribs.

"How did you know?"

"Know what, man in mask?" Vladimir snarled, tired and pissed off after his brief surge of activity effectively winded him. Scenting out the bitter edge of frustration and impotent uncertainty as the man watched him work.

"You know what," he snapped, tying off the repair job and feeling his way to the next one. Double checking. Sensing the man's disapproval, or maybe just confusion at the extra contact.

"You let me leave," he returned, more than a little accusing. Tugging pointedly on the poking threads of one of Claire's stitches. Making the Russian suck in a breath and spit out a muffled curse. "You knew and you let me leave."

He listened to the ragged harsh of the man's breaths before he answered. Remembering the moment in the tunnels when he'd turned. Sensing the change in the air as Vladimir used the butt of the gun to ease his way to his feet. Refusing to let him come near as the sounds of Fisk's men making their way down the tunnel grew louder and louder in his ears.

_Maybe I stay._

"Da, I did."

"Why?"

But Vladimir just shook his head, like he figured he was being particularly stupid on purpose. "I was dead. Burnt meat, yes? Thanks to you and your little flare. 'Vas dead weight. Slow you down. But if you made it out, I would to, in sense. You deal with Fisk. Avenge my brother.  _Live_. Seem like not bad deal to dead man," the man shared, wincing as he tried to straighten his back up against the couch.

His hand fell on the man's thigh without thought. Grounding him. "You'll pull your stitches again," he rasped, trying to cover the instinctual reaction with something excusable. But judging by the quickening tempo of the Russian's heartbeat, he knew.  _Of course he did._

There wasn't much you could hide from your one. Especially after you'd found them. After all, what was the point of hiding anything from the other half of yourself? Having a soulmate was rare enough, but actually finding them? The odds were, well, astronomical. It was because of that that the actual effects of the bond were hard to study or pin down. Even during law school the data required for cases where soulmates were involved were criminally hard to come by. He felt like he was flying by the seat of his pants as far as this whole bond thing was concerned, only that he was only one worrying about it. Vladimir wasn't-

"I got you out of there," he pointed out, fist tightening brutally as one of the splits opened at the seams. "I could have gotten us both out. You didn't have to-"

"Maybe, maybe not. I not want to take chance," Vladimir answered, somehow making the flippant collection of words come out surprisingly firm. Like he meant every word but didn't want him to catch on. "You bled more than enough that night, malen'kiy d'yavol."

The Russian word was unfamiliar, but the cadence wasn't. It sounded almost like-

"Good thing my one is as stupid as he is reckless," Vladimir hummed, posture losing some of its rigidity as he coughed shallowly. "I not admit wrong often, I do now. I think you do both."

"But how did you know?" he repeated, feeling more than a bit like a broken record as he tried to replay everything he'd said in that tunnel.  _I am not a killer?_ No. That couldn't be it. Vladimir had just laughed at him when he'd said it. Like an adult chastising a naughty child.

"Why not see for self?" Vladimir shot back, apparently determined to be an unhelpful bag of dicks about it as the tendons in the man's right thigh tightened and released like a half-answer. "Thought man in mask would have looked for self while napping."

_Ah._

_Well, they'd have to get this part over with sooner or later._

"That would be difficult," he admitted, wiping his hands on his pants before reaching up, deftly untying the knot that held his mask together.

"Difficult?" Vladimir parroted suspiciously, stare hard enough that he knew he was watching him closely. Taking in every moment as he slowly unwound the dark cloth that hid the upper portion on his face. "How difficult is to open eyes and see? Vy ne imeyet smysla dlya menya, amerikanskiy. Do you take me for fool? I am not-"

But Vladimir never finished, he was too busy staring when he pulled the rest of the cloth away. He kept his head bowed for a fraction of a beat before he raised it. Fixing the Russian with a bland, sightless stare. Uncertain of what to do or what it meant when Vladimir sucked in a breath and almost choked on it.

"As you can see…not being able to see is actually part of the problem here," he remarked after a long pause. Deciding to take the initiative and fill the silence as the man's heartbeat started to dip, slowing strangely despite the semi-audible creaking that had started issuing from the armrest, where the Russian was gripping it – hard.

"Blind?" Vladimir demanded, lips twisting. The word was phrased like a question even though he knew the man wasn't actually looking for an answer. "How is this possible? You fight! I have seen it! This is trick. Ty shutish'! Eto nevozmozhno! Posmotri na menya!"

The utter indignance was what made him grin. He thought about saying half a dozen things. Something cheesy and predictable. Something insulting. Something like what he'd told Claire in her apartment after she'd pulled him out of that dumpster. About there being other ways to see. But for some reason, what came out was-

"My name is Matt."

_Okay, so, not exactly awe-inspiring._

_He'll admit that._

But the man ended up surprising him when he snorted, all the same. _  
_

"Mudack," Vladimir growled weakly, raising a hand like he was going to run it through his hair in frustration, only to let it drop at the last second, delivering a sharp, open handed slap across his cheek. Catching him completely off guard as he flinched away, catching the man's wrist in his hand.

"My brother said you'd be prick," the Russian informed him, annoyingly smug as he slurred back into unconsciousness without missing beat. Leaving him with a burning cheek and about a half dozen different points of confusion. The most important one being, namely, that the man's words had translated into something far fonder than a curse.

* * *

 

"Did Anatoly have a soul mate?" he asked a few days later, watching Vladimir wolf down his third helping of hot soup like he hadn't eaten in days – like he was half expecting someone to snatch it from him as he slurped nosily. Cleaning the bowl with his fingers with exaggerated drags that squeaked against the stonewear like nails on a chalkboard.

"Nyet," the man answered, setting his bowl aside. Pulse leaping unpleasantly at the mention as the heatscape that outlined Vladimir's form rippled. Collecting around the sinuses like a storm of unshed tears. "It was only thing my brother and I did not share. He never quite forgave me for that I think."

"First in ten generation," the man remarked offhandedly, taking a pull from his beer bottle as the man's lips sucked a tight seal around the neck of the bottle.

He licked his lips on reflex. More than a bit unnerved at how easily they'd settled into an uneasy truce since that first day. He still couldn't breathe out of his nose, but honestly, he figured that comparatively at least he didn't fall asleep in mid-sentence. Which Vladimir had been doing a lot of as he'd continued to heal. It was kind of pointless to keep a grudge when his life had become absolutely ridiculous. He came home from work to what felt a whole lot like a bad sit-com these days and honestly he didn't see that changing any time soon.

"When younger I told him we would share, yes? We shared everything as boys.  _As men._ I believed 'dis no different. I wanted us to be equal in all things. I 'vase determined not to let it separate us," Vladimir rasped, tone strong, focused. Like it often did when he spoke of his brother as he leaned back, one leg draped over the armrest of the couch, lazed out like a feral cat, freshly fed and soaking up the sunshine.

He cleared his throat, thoughts threatening to run stream-of-consciousness on him before he re-ordered them and put them to voice. "There is a theory a group of scientists in Denmark are trying to prove," he shared, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he set his bowl aside. Eyes going to approximately where he figured the Russian was looking before he continued.

"Something about a tendency for soulbonds to run in family trees. Trying to pin point a gene.  _A marker._  They don't think it is random, I guess. They are facing a lot of opposition. But they have a solid base for the theory. Makes me wonder, though, how you can pin down something that connects with someone who can be half a world away? Disconnected. Someone you don't know exists any more than they do you? It's like limbic resonance or-"

"Mocha i der'mo na nauku, nauka ne znayet der'mo!" Vladimir snapped unhelpfully, shaking his head. "If true then my brother was cheated. Out of us, he was better suited to such things. Anatoly was check and balance. He had mother's patience. Always careful. Mindful of what there was to lose. I knew he would follow me here - to America when I felt pull in Utkin. Selfish! Proklyat'ye! YA dolzhen byl slushat!"

His ears picked up the calloused rasp of a scarred palm running through short hair. Giving him the impression that if he'd could, the Russian would be pacing. Somehow managing to sound enraged and exhausted all at once. Forcing himself not to shiver as the aftershocks of the man's sharp exhales whispered across his skin.

"When in hellhole, from Princes of Moscow to rotting in cell surrounded by dead and sick, I knew we could not look back. It drove me. Gave me strength," Vladimir thrummed, thumping his hand on the couch for emphasis. "Strength to turn back on own country. My mind explained it many ways. New opportunities. Business. Clean slate away from old families and bad blood. But deep down, da, I knew."

"My brother was different. He loved Moscow, even the bad parts he kept close - like worn out pair of favorite shoes. His heart lived there, yes? That was where he belonged. But he came with me because I was selfish. I would not leave without him and he knew 'dat. He wanted me to know peace. To feel whole," Vladimir shared, knuckles brushing down the front of his borrowed shirt as if to press against his living heart. The only place he could visit where his brother still breathed.

The silence stretched out, growing wings but refusing to fly as he struggled through a swallow. Feeling the need to say the words even though part of him knew he'd hate the answer.

"And what did you inherit?" he asked after a long moment, exhuming the previous point from the garble of broken English and staggered Russian. Sensing the cracking strain of the words as Vladimir's heat signature rippled again - tired and fuming in front of him.

"Father's rage," Vladimir replied, dismissive. Eyes fluttering closed as if to signal an end to the discussion as somewhere in the close distance a siren wailed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> "Malen'kiy d'yavol" – "little devil."
> 
> "Vmeste" – "together."
> 
> "Vy ne imeyet smysla dlya menya , amerikanskiy" – "you make no sense to me, American."
> 
> "Ty shutish'! Eto nevozmozhno!" – "You have to be kidding! This is impossible!"
> 
> "Posmotri na menya!" – "Look at me!"
> 
> "Mudak" - "asshole."
> 
> "Nyet" – "no."
> 
> "Mocha i der'mo na nauku , nauka ne znayet der'mo" - "Piss and shit on science, science doesn't know shit!"
> 
> "Proklyat'ye! YA dolzhen byl slushat" - "God damnit! I should have listened."
> 
> Utkin: was the prison in Siberia that Anatoly and Vladimir were in for three years before escaping and coming to America.


	3. Chapter 3

After that they fell into something of a routine. He went out at night. Vladimir healed and bitched about nothing. He caught four or five hours of sleep, made them breakfast and headed out to work. Vladimir healed and still bitched about nothing. He pinched magazines from the businesses downstairs as Vladimir improved and started staying awake for hours at a time. Leaving them in strategic positions around the couch in the hopes of staving off boredom. Instead, all that got him was a whole bunch of snooping, a rearranged living room and a scathing report of how boring his flat was.

Less than a day after Claire pronounced him an 'asshole on the mend,' Vladimir quickly found and polished off his entire beer supply. Even downing the last few fingers of the expensive vodka he saved for special occasions as he was out trying to track down Owlsley.

They had a good yell about that. Right up until Vladimir questioned why he kept a bottle of  _his_  favourite vodka - so hard to find that even _he_  had to order it himself from back home – in the back of his liquor cabinet. He decided to put himself in a mandatory time out after that, trying not to freak out as he attempted to separate where Vladimir's taste buds ended and his began.

Unfortunately, that only lasted about a half hour because, as it turned out, Vladimir cared less about identity-crisis panic attacks and more about just flat out drinking. Because it wasn't long until he was barging into his bedroom. Demanding a new bottle for 'scientific purposes.' And by demanding he meant yelling. Loudly and repeatedly.

He ended up getting so frustrated he found himself yelling right back, pointing out that if the man wanted to get drunk, he could go out buy it himself. Considering that unlike him, he didn't have dirty stacks of millions stashed away to waste on stupidly expensive vodka that the man was just going to binge-drink anyway.

The silence that followed was so close to a pout he could practically _taste_  it.

After a while, the bickering and stilted silences blurred and started to become normal. A  _new_  normal unique to the two of them as they tried to navigate where they stood with each other on an almost day to day basis. Coming home in the evening was like opening your tent flaps in the middle of the African safari and playing Russian roulette with the local wildlife.

The man put him on edge. He'd admit that much. Feeling like he was constantly struggling to keep the upper hand as the man practically _oozed_  aggression through his pores like sweat. It got bad enough that he found himself ordering a copy of text-to-voice "Russian: for Beginners" so he could level the playing field. Testing it out whenever Vladimir was being particularly annoying just so he could listen to the indignant spluttering and waves of absolute outrage as he, apparently,  _namerenno_ _ubivali yego yazyk!_

He'd started taking his recordings to work with him for the slow days. Finding it far easier to study without the Russian breathing down his neck or throwing stuff at him. A new hobby the smartass seemed to have picked up once moving his arms didn't physically cripple him for the rest of the day. In the beginning it had been a simple test of reflexes. With Vladimir mostly trying to catch him in a lie. Then amused by his host's abilities – testing them to see if he could catch him off guard – probably searching for weaknesses he could someday exploit. But eventually, it turned into something close to… _oh god-_  fond?

The downside of bringing his off the clock studying to the office, however was somewhat predictable.

"I need to learn how to speak asshole," he explained distractedly, fingers skimming the same passage over and over again as Foggy read the cover of the tape out loud, voice wrinkled with uncaffinated confusion. Too deep in contexts and contractions to pay his best friend and his seven or eight immediate, but still mercifully unspoken questions, much attention.

"I don't even want to know," Foggy moaned, long hair whisking back and forth across his collar as his friend shook his head. Heading towards the supply closet for the promise of burnt coffee and the hope that after a few sips the world might make a bit more sense.

And really, wasn't that just the truth?

* * *

 

He wasn't sure how he got from the docks back home. After Nobu and Fisk it took all his strength just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He was deafened, senses muted down to the sluggish beat of his own heart as he rolled onto the roof of his apartment building and dragged himself towards the access hatch.

After that, it all got hazy – unclear. He remembered starting down the stairs. Forgetting about the creaky floor board as he stumbled against the railing, wheezing. Sensing Vladimir stirring on the couch, adrenaline spiking the same moment as Foggy's familiar heartbeat - drunk and grief-stricken – thudded its way up the final flight of stairs and made a bee-line for his door.

After that, everything went black.

* * *

* * *

 

He got the rest in bits and pieces from Claire a couple hours later while Vladimir glowered in the backdrop. He learned second hand how Vladimir had caught him when his legs had given out halfway down the stairs. How Foggy had been knocking at the door for close to half an hour, talking about the case and Elena – talking about making the bastards pay.

How Vladimir had grabbed the burner and cussed out Claire in whispers until she gave some excuse at work and raced across the city. How he'd snuck up to the roof and tossed a brick down onto a parked car on the street, setting off the alarm, distracting Foggy long enough for the Russian to lock the roof access and make an educated guess through the starred contacts on his phone. Sending the drunk man on a wild goose chase to a hospital on the other side of the city with some excuse about him getting grazed by a car walking home.

The entire time Claire was patching him up, Vladimir said nothing. He existed in the background like a burning ball of barely controlled rage. Body issuing heat that flared and spat every time the man cracked his knuckles. He was a living point of tension, half-feral and worrisomely silent. Yet, the man said nothing when Claire turned on him next, spotting a trickle of red through his shirt from where he'd pulled stitches lunging across the room - catching him before he fell. Muttering darkly about it until she caught sight his expression.

She repaired the stitches and bowed out soon after that. Telling him to call when he woke in up the morning, eying Vladimir wearily. Not once turning her back on him as she collected her things. Telling the Russian to keep him hydrated before he closed the door in her face and locked with a deafening click.

"You are very dumb, moy odin," Vladimir told him after Claire left, rounding on him. Fists clenched despite the fact that he was barely conscious. Scenting fury and the bitter tart of an awkward, grudging fear as the man looked down, bare feet disturbing an uneven layer of bloody bandages and the cut off remnants of his shirt as the taste of his own red curdled in his mouth.

"Glupyy kusok der'ma, yesli vy ne byli dobyvat', ya by brosil tebya krysha nedel' nazad. Moya mat' lgal skvoz' zuby, kogda ona Sayida everythine dolzhen byl imet' smysl, kogda vy nashli svoyu vtoruyu polovinu. Vy ne imeyet smysla dlya menya malen'kiy d'yavol," Vladimir hissed, crouching down beside him. Crooked fingers carding firmly through his hair as his lashes fluttered into the hollows. Threatening to stay there as his injuries took their toll. Feeling the trickle of dried blood filtering down like paper rain, powdering across their skin as the taxi Claire called before she left pulled up on the side of the street - honking it's horn to get her attention.

There were words. Words he could have said. Words meant to sooth – deflect. But his head was spinning and Vladimir was still talking. Filling the air above their heads with all the words they  _weren't_  saying, just as much as the ones they were.

"Next time I kill you myself, with bare hands," Vladimir growled, speaking into his hair as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss across his temple. Nosing into him lightly as he blinked sightlessly, breathing in the scent of him as the vibrations of each word echoed tinnily in his ears.

He slept tucked close to the man's chest. Vladimir made it rather clear he had little choice in the matter as he shoved him up and wormed his way onto the couch beside him. Humming tunelessly as the steady thrum of his one's heart - soothing and  _oh so right_  in its cadence -calmed him down into something close to normal. Reminding him with every beat, every breath that synced up and they shared as one, that he was there, vibrant and alive. Watchful and protective as the man kept his eyes firm on the door. Not going anywhere.

For the first time in a long time, he slept through the night.

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

"Ach! What is it with you Americans and obsession with bond mark, hmm?"

He must have asked about it again, because he woke up sometime later, still on the couch. Head cradled in Vladimir's lap and halfway through some sort of explanation. Feeling disjointed and mildly lightheaded as he looked up at the red-scored outline of the man's face, content to soak in the roughness of the words as Vladimir talked more to himself than anything.

"Me and my brother heard many jokes about American education system. But in this case, I think true. You don't need to see to know, 'dis you know more than most I think, hmm?" the man mused, using the pause to shove a juice box and straw into his face and force him to swallow it down. Crooning quietly as the man speared the straw at his lips determinedly - a clear order to finish it when he tried to shove it away.

"In Russia, child with mark taught something else. More than book learning. Rodstvennuyu dushu is not just perfect match, but missing half. Other half of heart – soul. So, I listen here," Vladimir replied, pulse hitching the slightest of bits before the man's hand came down unexpectedly. Pressing his palm against his chest, squarely on top of his heart.

The world shuddered around the edges.

He swallowed hard, feeling the warm weight of the man's hand on his bare chest.

Unable to shake the feeling that his entire reality was an inch away from settling.

"In tunnel, I knew," the man shared, voice dry, threatening to crack at the edges like he'd been up all night speaking or was remembering something that pained him. "What is word? Instinct? Da.  _Instinct._  When grow up on streets, you learn. You listen to heart and head or you die. Like prey animal in world of predator – survival of the fittest. Same thing, yes? You listen or you miss cues nature gives."

Neither of them commented on it when the man's hand remained where it was. The weight of it wasn't gentle. But then again, neither of them were men that had much use for gentleness and softer things. They were men who  _liked_  being the sharp end of the instrument.  _Who lived for it._ Speaking a language of blunt force and vicious uppercuts while the world told them that love was wrong. Sadistic.  _Cruel_. That the ends never justified the means and that somehow, that moral high ground still meant something while Hell's Kitchen quietly choked on its own decay.

"In Moscow there are dogs, strays that ride subway from country to city to scrounge," Vladimir commented after a while, wide palm flexing across his skin, scarred and calloused as he memorized every inch, every ripple, scar, imperfection, and badly healed break.

"People ask how they know stop. How they learn. How they ride subway back to same den at night.  _Instinct._  Animals listen to what we don't want hear, yes? They not deny what has already been set in stone. Instead, work with what they have. Sometimes smarter than us, I think."

He blinked, listening to the slow breaks in the man's breathing as the Russian eventually started dozing. Filling the room with a soft, rasping snore that seemed at odds with his inherent roughness.

And perhaps for the first time since he'd known him, he allowed himself to consider how brutally honest Vladimir was. Not just to himself, but in terms of the world around him. While he saw Hell's Kitchen for what it  _could_  be - what it had  _potential_  to be, Vladimir saw it for it was. Taking it at face value and expecting the same. Making his actions and convictions true to himself in a way that was, well,  _different_ , but at the end of the day, not completely unfamiliar.

He supposed that should worry him.

Finding common ground with someone like Vladimir  _Ranskahov._

But strangely enough, it didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> "namerenno ubivali yego yazyk" – "purposely butchered his language."
> 
> "moy odin" – "my one."
> 
> "Glupyy kusok der'ma, yesli vy ne byli dobyvat', ya by brosil tebya krysha nedel' nazad. Moya mat' lgal skvoz' zuby, kogda ona Sayida everythine dolzhen byl imet' smysl, kogda vy nashli svoyu vtoruyu polovinu. Vy ne imeyet smysla dlya menya, malen'kiy d'yavol." - "you stupid piece of shit, if you weren't mine I would have thrown you off the roof weeks ago. My mother lied through her teeth when she said everything was supposed to make sense when you found your other half. You make no sense to me, little devil."
> 
> "Rodstvennuyu dushu" – "soulmate."


	4. Chapter 4

The 'hit by a car' excuse ended up working a bit too well, judging by Foggy's immediate presence once he'd slept off his hangover. He forced himself not to feel guilty as Foggy dove headlong into his mandatory:  _'you are my best friend and I am not freaking out, you're freaking out'_ duties. Fussing over him and ragging on 'awful city drivers'. All too aware that Vladimir was chilling up on the roof with a fresh pack of cigarettes he'd already decided not to ask about, muttering darkly to himself.

He'd admit to being caught off guard about the whole thing. He'd been half-asleep and hadn't noticed Foggy's heartbeat until he was nearly on their floor. Hell, he'd practically  _shoved_ Vladimir through the roof access and slammed the door. Vibrating nervous energy every time Foggy's angsty pacing took him near the stairs. Making him literally meters away from having to make an excuse about why there was an angry looking Russian wearing his university track sweats and nothing else, chain smoking on his roof.

Foggy left, eventually. Hating himself immediately for feeling relieved as he followed the sound of his footsteps out the door and onto the street. Telling himself it was for his friend's own good. That it was better this way. Safer. Not believing a word of it until Vladimir distracted him by lighting his sixth cigarette in under two hours. Making him forget about the lies he was forcing on the people closest to him in favor of dragging himself up to the roof to stop his stupid soulmate from developing lung cancer.

Vladimir was not cooperative.

Days passed like this.

* * *

Vladimir popped Karen's balloon after only half a day of it bobbing around the apartment. He tripped him on the way to the bathroom in retaliation. Vladimir cussed him out and threw one of the kitchen knives clear across the room. Embedding it into the wall inches from his right cheek.

So, _naturally_ , the next logical step was declaring a full out domestic  _blitzkrieg_.

They got into a screaming fight that tipped over furniture and popped two stitches a piece. Ending almost as quickly as it started with three black eyes, more than a little blood and them laughing about it later over luke-warm take-out and a six pack of cheap beer.

Vladimir's voice was almost fond when he launched into a brutal play by play. The feral pleasure of it all too obvious in the man's words as he clapped him on the shoulder and grinned fiercely into his beer bottle. Drowning out the silence that could have existed in its place with playful banter and long strains of too-fast Russian. Making him forget about the hours that passed far too quickly, realizing by default that he'd become a bit too accustomed to the pleased chuff the man made in the back of his throat when he was happy.

He pretended not to notice.

Not for Vladimir's sake, but for his own.

He didn't think he could handle what existed behind it quite yet.

Or maybe never.

* * *

The next morning he woke up to the smell of Vladimir cooking in his kitchen.

"You went out," he accused, letting his nose lead the way as the Russian slammed a bowl of Kashaon the counter closest to him. Spooning in a liberal dose of creamed honey before turning back to the bacon he had frying on the element.

"Your food is shit," the man commented without heat, flipping the bacon unconcernedly as the fat from the pan spat and sizzled across the stove top.

He raised a brow, unsurprised.

"That's what you said about my apartment and clothes," he reminded, slipping onto one of the stools and dragging the bowl closer. Picking up the comforting smells of buckwheat and rye as he mixed the honey into the thick porridge.

"Because  _are_  shit," Vladimir affirmed, clicking off the element. Tearing off a wad of paper towel to line the plate as he let the bacon fat drain. "Apartment and clothes. Being hero doesn't pay bills, da?"

"You said it, not me," he muttered, taste buds singing as he took another spoonful. Refusing to give the prick the satisfaction of knowing how much he was enjoying it as he forced himself to go slow. Keeping his mind mostly closed as a wave of shared images and memories nudged enticingly at the very corners of his waking mind. Reminding him of moments he'd never experienced, meals he'd never shared. Mornings shoving elbows with Anatoly, scarfing down third helpings of breakfast as a tired, worn looking woman smiled down at them warmly.

Of course, considering his bowl was quickly snatched and refilled once his spoon started scraping the bottom pretty much confirmed that was all moot point anyway. Especially when the plate of bacon materialized between them and they brushed fingers vying for the first slice.

They managed to get through the meal without stabbing each other. Which was actually pretty refreshing. A change of pace that made room for a lazy debate about breakfast foods and the difference in quality between a French Press and a regular drip. Smelling the saturation of caffeine that entered the Russian's blood stream as Vladimir's voice lost its usual blur of morning-tiredness and perked up like ruffled feathers. It was only when he popped the last piece of bacon into his mouth and made to get up that everything changed.

Vladimir caught his hand in mid-air, large hand curling around his wrist, stopping it inches away from sucking off the grease, only to replace it with his own. The sound he wanted to make was wrecked and damning as the man took each finger into his mouth and slowly and quite deliberately  _licked them clean._

He remembered to breathe –  _barely_.

"What was that for?" he rasped after it was over, shaky and over-stimulated as the air ghosted across the wet skin. Ears burning an embarrassed-warm, still ringing with the sound that'd issued when Vladimir had pulled off his pinky finger with an almost  _obscene_  sounding pop. Scrambling to regain some semblance of control over himself as a raw sort of smugness thickened the air while Vladimir grabbed their dishes and dumped them into the sink.

"Took last slice of bacon," Vladimir grinned, shrugging bare shoulders like he couldn't tell that the Russian wasn't about half an inch from leaning over the table and undressing him with his  _teeth_. Seeding the air with the pin-pricks of arousal as the man breezed out of the room. "I take my share, da?"

He didn't get up from his seat for a long time after that. Desperately willing his hard on to subside as Vladimir stole his towel and started the shower. Humming something that sounded completely obnoxious and crude under his breath as the air tinted humid and close.

His life was very strange.

* * *

It was a week and a half before he was well enough to patrol again. Claire told him he was pushing it. Vladimir practically shoved him out the window himself. Grumbling about bored animals and their tendency to bite when they go stir-crazy. He got home late, tired and hungry, but with barely a bruise to show for it. And while he hadn't made much progress on getting more dirt on Fisk, he had to admit it felt good to get out there again – on the streets. His good mood carried him through the window and past the empty couch before he screeched to a halt and realized what was missing.

He found Vladimir star-fished across the bed, drowsing on his sheets like he owned them.

"Get out of my bed," he rasped, mentally congratulating himself when his voice came out more or less level. Able to tell by sound that the Russian was at least bare chested, scent sinking into the silk like water spreading. A metaphor which was both alarming and comforting. But also annoying. Annoying considering he knew from experience that it would take more than three washes and a whole lot of fresh air to wash  _that_  kind of scent out.

If that was what he was in fact wanting to do.

Which was,  _well_ , the jury was still out on that one, honesty.

"Fuck off, couch is shit," the man replied, muffled into the pillows. Not even looking up as the Russian shifted with a soft sigh. Voice rough-edged and rich in its accent in a way that made him shiver. Tasting the singular tones of sleep and idle interest as his hips hitched into the mattress like an invitation.

"Vladimir," he started, suddenly feeling a whole lot like the frustrated house wife in one of those 90's sit-coms Foggy had always relished the opportunity to describe during the off hours of their under-grad. The ones with the stupid, useless husband bumbling around, failing at everyday tasks - like putting the toilet seat down and using the grocery money to buy beer for the boys.

"Shut up and come to bed, yes?"

It wasn't until halfway through the night, when Vladimir shifted in his sleep and the full-bodied rasp of bare skin sliding across worn silk sang low, slow and damning in his ears that he realized that the man was, in fact, naked.  _Dickhead_. His cheeks flamed hot. Lips parting as the man murmured something, pushing his face further into the pillows as the line of his thigh firmed against his.

He told himself it was exhaustion that kept him from kicking him out of bed or at least demanding he put some shorts on. As it was, he just sighed – long suffering – and crowded the man off the center of the bed. Somehow ending up draped half on top of him in some half-conscious form of revenge his back only hated him for later.

_Asshole._

* * *

In the morning - because some things can only be put off for so long, no matter what kind of repartee of avoidance you have at your disposal - Vladimir kissed like pent up aggression. Like a feral lion chained to the middle of a circus ring, yearning for the freedom of a wide open Savannah. He was still half asleep when the Russian rolled them, pinning him to the sheets in a mess of bare thighs and questing fingers.

He exhaled in a rush when the man's stubble rasped down his skin, making him arch and gasp. Forgetting, if only for a moment, all the reasons why he should probably be shoving the man off him and instead yanked him closer. Kissing him back with the blunt of his teeth as Vladimir hummed his approval.

He went to work, lips throbbing. Dick pressed uncomfortably hard against his zipper as Vladimir watched him go, quiet for once - heat signature flickering. Soul singing, yearning for him to turn around and go to him. To take him down. Give it up. To complete the circle nature had already started and take his one into the very depth of himself. To become one. To do whatever it took to fill the emptiness that was threatening to spread into the very heart of him.

But he didn't.

Vladimir wasn't the only one who was stubborn after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> "Kasha" – porridge: This is a Russian staple and is over a thousand years old. Generally made from buckwheat, barley, rye, oats, (or millet).


	5. Chapter 5

He was on edge for the next few days. Both of them were. Unhappy in his skin as he fought the impulse to just slam through the door and pin his stupid soulmate up against the wall and swallow every sound he could coax up. It was a need that was almost visceral. Like sweat dripping down from his hairline or the singular tang of citrus on a hot day. He lived on tender-hooks the longer the days spanned out. Anticipation born to snap clean.

This wasn't natural or even right. He knew that. Resisting the pull? Well, there was no point to it. Hell, why would you? It was innate. He knew what he felt. And he could  _feel_ what Vladimir felt. There was no questioning, no second guessing. And yet, he'd stalled right before the finish line. Part of him unwilling to overcome that final hurdle and accept that out of all the people in the world,  _this_  was is soulmate.

The worst part was that Vladimir  _let_  him. Every single time he _let_  him pull away –  _let_  him walk. He hated it as much as he was pathetically grateful for it. Trying desperately not to think as a war of conflicting voices fought for their right to weigh in. Everything was supposed to make sense when you met your soulmate. It wasn't supposed to feel like this.  _He wasn't._  He shouldn't feel torn. He shouldn't feel guilty for wanting what part of him told him he shouldn't have. He knew who Vladimir was.  _What he was._  Morally it was an easy question with an easy answer. Only the rest of him didn't feel the same. In fact, the rest of him was  _screaming_  for it –  _for him_.

Only thing was, despite the surety the bond brought. Despite the permanence of it _._  The anxiety building in his chest kept telling him he didn't have long to make a decision. And in the end, as it turned out, he should have listened.

* * *

He hadn't realized what a steady, comforting presence Vladimir was in his life until he came back from work one evening and found the man gone. Somehow he'd just known. Known his one wasn't out for a quick trip to the corner mart or whatever it was the man actually did when he was out at work or patrolling the streets. There was a feeling laced like heartbreak in his chest that told him otherwise.

The urge to head to the roof and try to pick up the sound of the man's heartbeat – his barking laugh, the slight limp that still hampered his confident strut – was impossible to ignore. Only making it worse on himself when he realized there was nothing. A sick match to the same story that played out inside. Where everything Vladimir owned, everything he'd bought or had on him when he'd dragged him halfway across the city was missing.

_Vladimir was gone._

_Just gone._

He told himself it didn't hurt. That he didn't feel it, soul deep and throbbing in the center of his chest when he finally went to sleep that night. Breathing the scent of Vladimir fading from the sheets as the days spanned into a week, and only multiplied from there.

He thought he'd be happy.  _Relieved._  Like in rabbiting first, Vladimir had actually done him a favor. Instead, he just felt sick. Withdrawing from work – from Foggy and Karen. And letting his fists fly meaner on the streets. Exercising his demons on those that actually deserved it before he finally gave up and visited Father Lampton. Smile tremulous and brittle on his face as he sipped at his latte, trying and failing to act like every breath he forced himself to take  _didn't_  feel like a sucker punch for two.

* * *

It was almost two weeks later when he rounded the corner of his street after a long night at Josies - not so subtly drowning his sorrows with Foggy - that the sound of a painfully familiar heartbeat  _thrum-thrummed_  from the kitchen of his flat.

It took all his Murdock stubbornness not to run the rest of the way there. Heart pounding in his chest as every cell in his body  _wanted_. Forcing himself to take the stairs slowly, steps measured and deliberate, as he strained every ounce of himself. Drinking in the sounds of Vladimir singing softly to himself, chopping something – mutton, barely two years old, more or less freshly frozen from New Zealand – as a very unhealthy amount of frying onions and double-creamed butter sizzled in the background.

"You left," he accused, closing the door behind him. Hating himself a little bit more at how quickly it came out – how wounded – as he placed his cane in the corner and shrugged out of his book-bag and jacket.

"Da," Vladimir replied carefully, warily. As if suddenly uncertain of his welcome as he reached behind him, flicking off the burner. "Man must make own way in world. I should have taken care of business weeks ago - here and in Moscow. Anatoly rests there now. It was what he wanted. My brother loved the city, even when it not love him back."

"You could have told me," he pointed out, walking slowly across the length of the apartment towards him. Sensing the slight ducking of a head as the man nodded slowly, but didn't back down. Wondering if he was imagining the sanctimonious smugness trickling like running water through the mobster's tone. Half certain the man could feel his relief. Feel how it'd felt to know he'd finally come home and  _god-_ he hated that. He hadn't asked for this. He hadn't-

"You needed time to clear head, I think."

This time around, he didn't even give him a chance. He slammed his fist right into the man's gut and kicked him with a high lunge that snapped the Russian's head back. Deferring the first punch, then the second, before the Russian caught him by surprise by ducking and catching him under the chin with a vicious upper-cut.

"Careful! You break vodka!" Vladimir protested when he slammed them back against the counter – an edgy spitting mad to his one's amused calm. Licking at the blood streaming from his nose with the air of a man who'd expected nothing less.

"You represent everything I am fighting against! Everything I hate! Everything I stand for! The things you've done?! How can you expect me to be okay with this!? How can anyone!?" he growled, shaking him as his fists curled into the collar of what felt suspiciously like a dress shirt. Expensive and soft with two buttons left undone at the top.

"Maybe. Maybe not," Vladimir timed annoyingly, voice losing its terseness before tipping into something close to fond. Like he'd come to terms with the way things were going to go ages ago and was just waiting for him to catch up.

"Maybe it like stories. Ones that say for man to be truly successful he must be part what he loves and part what he hates. Balance, yes? We are two half's, you and I. Together, make whole. Besides, out there, on streets? You are not winning, you barely break even," the man sneered. "Admit it to self, if not me. But you need me, da? You hate that you do, but cannot help it, yes?"

"You are a criminal!" he hissed, clinging to the words like they still meant something to the both of them as Vladimir shoved his thigh between his legs and firmed it close – rough and unapologetic. Giving him something to grind against before he could even process the shift.

"And yet, here we are," Vladimir chuckled, dark and richly layered as he swallowed loudly. Barely able to stop himself from licking the man's throat as his hips gave into gravity and started moving against him in earnest. Gasping as the firm weight of the man's prick rubbed against his. Confined through the layers that existed between them but no less tantalizing as he scented the air, tasting the salt-sweet of the man's arousal. "God laughs, yes?"

"Shut up," he gritted, self-control a pipe dream as he mouthed into the curve of the man's neck. Wondering what kind of sounds he could coax up if he forced the man to bare it and-

"'Vat? You were hoping 'dis was some kind of mistake? Nyet, malen'kiy d'yavol, you know different now, do you not? A dog is honest when it humps your leg. It is animal with animal desires. We are the only ones that kid itself about what we are. There are no more excuses, Matthew…nowhere to hide. Not for either of us," the man purred, using his given name for the first time as minuscule tremors of uneven pleasure rippled through him.

His fists clenched tight. Fighting to hang onto the dregs of all the reasons why this was wrong, why he shouldn't, _couldn't_  on good conscience do this as the man's breath hazed out – murky and aroused – between them.

The kiss the man stole was brutal, unkind and completely expected. Coming out like a desperate sort of challenge as the bond between them pulsed fitfully. "I don't like you," he hissed into the Russian's lips, shoulders hunching, every inch of him wanting it – needing it as Vladimir let him crowd him into the corner. Soaking him in as his one's soul ingrained itself into his senses with barely a ripple of resistance.

"And I don't understand you," Vladimir crowed in reply, voice sounding disturbingly like a victory as he nipped at his lips, laving the sting with his tongue as the man traced the seam and demanded entrance. Hissing and jerking back when he bit the Russian's tongue instead.

Which of course ended up exactly where you think. With Vladimir's elbow slamming right into his ribs the same time the man bellowed like a bull and threw them both clear over the kitchen counter and into the living room. Landing side by side and gasping as the air  _wooshed_  out of their lungs in a rush. Effectively calling a tenuous sort of stalemate as they panted and stared daggers at each other.

"We finished scraping like children on playground?" Vladimir coughed, winded as he levered himself up onto his hands and knees and stumbled to his feet. Heat signature flickering between barely curbed violence to arousal before choosing the latter, humming like a downed power line only inches away.

And while the words were flippant, it was the intent behind them that brought him up short. That made whatever was left of his embattled thoughts and almost-regrets heel. Because the man had said it like he'd meant it. Like it was a request he'd actually honor, regardless of the answer. Like if he needed to, he could spend the rest of his life hating him, and the man would understand. Like-

"Oh God,  _yes_ ," he rasped, garbling a whine between his teeth as the man's canines traced down the dip of his collarbone. Plucking lightly at his nipple through the fabric of his shirt as he dug his fingers into the Russian's shoulder blades and didn't stop until the metallic tang of blood welled up in the furrows as the man groaned in a sinful surge of  _pleasure-pain_ that almost ended everything before it started.

This time they attacked each other with their lips instead.

* * *

Vladimir broke his couch on purpose when he tossed them on it, taking out the entire back with a violent groan of releasing springs and spilled stuffing. Biting at his lips and laughing like a maniac as the Russian rolled them through it and wrestled him for the right to yank him out of his pants. Sucking him down and  _swallowing_ around him like it was the closest thing the bastard could get to an apology.

So, in the end, considering the fact that he ended up cumming harder than he ever had in his entire god damned life, choking the douchebag with his dick when his hips jerked and the man did something absolutely  _impossible_  with his tongue, he decided to chalk it up as a win.

Couch desecration not withstanding.

* * *

"You know, you never told me…"

It was only really in the aftermath that he remembered to ask about it. When he was lying flat on his back, spread out like a starfish. Feeling more like he was breathing for two with Vladimir sprawled out on top of him. Pinning him comfortably to the mattress as the Russian's prick twitched valiantly in the cradle of his thigh. Sated and breathing obnoxiously loud as the man nosed into the scruff of his neck and generally seemed uninclined to roll off him any time soon.

"Told 'vat?" Vladimir grunted, stubble rasping against the sensitive inner of his neck as the Russian burrowed deeper. Hips rolling slow against him without any real purpose than to continue the gentle friction as his breathing hitched damningly. Making him smack him on the ass in retribution for the smirk the man pressed into his skin.

"You never told me what I said," he reminded, nails tracing idle patterns along the dips in the Russian's spine. Feeling, not for the first time, somewhat cheated at not being able to see himself on his one's skin.  _His mark._  When Vladimir could see his etched clearly into the pale of his inner arm.

"Back in the tunnel. I know what you said. About knowing in spite of it…but the bondmark, well, it's different. It's proof you can see, touch. So, what was it that made you so sure I was… _yours_? What was it that I said?"

He frowned when a full minute passed. Listening to the man's heartbeat as it hitched slightly. Steady and strong, but shallowed intermittently by half-starts and long pauses. Like the man was thinking his answer through before putting it to voice.

"Not said yet," Vladimir admitted, the truth of it keen as the man stretched out on top of him – muscles flexing. "I think long on 'dis. When sleeping. Between nurses needles and glares, da? When I was alone in tunnel, I knew, felt pull – pull to you. But was dead man, so thought I go out with bang, yes? The song I sing then was your mark because if not I would be dead, yes? Was most important thing in moment…would not be here…vmeste without it."

"But my mark? One that sits below – here," the man continued, taking his hand and guiding it to the arch of the Russian's right hip. Letting him feel his way across the skin, automatically trying to see if he could find some trace of what it was – what it said as he ran his fingers back and forth across the pebbly, scar-studded skin. "You not said."

"But someday I think you 'vill," Vladimir hummed, pleasure, surety and affection clear in his tone - almost like the man was smiling as he spoke. Gifting the words with a snapshot of sensation he was able to translate in his mind's eye. "Soon maybe. I wait, yes?"

He blinked.

But what,  _oh-_

_Oh._

_That son of a-_

He sucked in a breath. Mind flicking through half a dozen different emotions. Frustration. Fondness. Before he decided to settle on hopeless and shook his head. Shoving all thoughts of the future aside for a moment in favor of taking the man by surprise and bucking him off his perch.

" _Mudak_ ," he grunted, the word deliberate and clear but lacking the Russian's natural brogue as he rolled them over. Taking all the covers with him as Vladimir just laughed – playful and darkly affectionate - as he teetered on the edge of the bed. Naked as a jaybird and twice as cunning as the man's heartbeat thrummed up another notch. Filling the air with a sudden burst of anticipation

And really, that should have been his first clue.

Because before he could anchor himself to the mattress, Vladimir pounced. Taking him down with him as they slipped off the mattress and on to the floor with a creaky thump and a jumbled mess of tangled limbs and sheets. Shouting at each other until he shut his stupid soulmate up with his lips and tongue and strongly considered suffocating him with a pillow until the man reached up and fumbled with the bottle of lube. Grabbing their pricks and distracting him with the beginning of a slow, torturous glide before ringing around his entrance with a slick finger. Murmuring something absolutely _filthy_  in his ear as the Russian's cock fell heavy and leaking into the small of his back.

His ass smarted for  _days_  after that.

And only  _part_  of it was because of the fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> "Nyet, malen'kiy d'yavol": "No, little devil."
> 
> "Vmeste" – "together."
> 
> "Mudak" – "asshole."

**Author's Note:**

> Reference:  
> • “Chto ya ne zasluzhil etogo?” – “What have I done to deserve this?”  
> • English translation of a Russian song from World War 2, which was what Vladimir was singing when he started down the tunnel towards Fisk’s men as Matt escaped before the gunfire started.  
> • Pelmeni is a mainly Russian dish usually made with minced meat filling, wrapped in thin dough (made out of flour and eggs, sometimes with milk or water added). For filling, pork, lamb, beef, or any other kind of meat can be used; mixing several kinds is popular. Traditionally, various spices, such as pepper, onions, and garlic, are mixed into the filling.


End file.
